The irony is I was meant to be in Europe, the intention had been to chase the sun and head towards Morroco for a gentler winter. I'd given up the tenancy on my home, packed up my Jeep and was set to leave. Then plans got halted, altered and now completely changed, with both life and creative ambition depicting a need to remain in the UK a while longer.
Anyway following a month of sofa surfing, uncertain of where exactly to now spend Winter 2016? It is as it is I've a very small handful of really sound friends; the kind who over supper one night announced “We’ve been thinking it would be really good for you to stay here, you can live in the yurt for the winter?”
I’d looked at them quizzically; it was most definitely a curve ball. A British winter in Yurtshire? I hate the cold.
Yet to set the scene I’m now living in the rolling green, well wooded hills of Britain's west. From the house at the top of the hill, my round womb like home is nestled down in the hollow of the hill, hidden by a little spinny of trees, in what is an orchard by the river.
To the wild native like heart "Welcome to the idyllic...."